


Gonna Tear Up the Town

by kototyph



Series: put your money where your mouth is 'verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, M/M, New Year's Eve, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17229443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: He tells Bobby, “Cabin in Vermont.” He edits that slightly to “Bed and breakfast in Maine,” for Ellen and “Ski lodge in New Hampshire,” for Jody. Sam’s down in Queens with them for the turn of the year, and Dean gets a text from him later that day that just says,i know what youre doing. It makes him laugh out loud.





	Gonna Tear Up the Town

“Oh, we’re going dancing,” Dean tells Charlie over coffee. “Dusk til dawn.”

“Cas dances?” Charlie says, looking intrigued.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he says.

He tells Victor, “I got us a penthouse suite in the Harbor Hotel downtown,” followed by a cheesy lear just to watch the man’s eyes roll. “Their in-house restaurant is _fantastic._ ”

“Yeah, yeah, spend your money,” Victor mutters. “It’s all tourist lobster and bad wine anyway.”

“I thought we’d drive down to New York, see the ball drop for our first New Years,” Dean says to Benny, coming out of the break room. He pretends not to notice the dubious look he gets back, adding breezily, “It’s gonna be incredible.”

“If you’re sure you want all that trouble,” Benny drawls.

“So sure,” Dean affirms. “All of it.”

He tells Bobby, “Cabin in Vermont.” He edits that slightly to “Bed and breakfast in Maine,” for Ellen and “Ski lodge in New Hampshire,” for Jody. Sam’s down in Queens with them for the turn of the year, and Dean gets a text from him later that day that just says, _i know what youre doing._ It makes him laugh out loud.

“Two words: drag queens,” he says to Kevin, starting to really get into it. “I think there are extra tickets if you want?”

“Uh, thanks,” Kevin says, just as Charlie cuts in from her workstation with, “I thought you were going dancing?”

“Oh, we’ll be dancing alright,” Dean says with a wink, and Kevin takes a face journey so long and complicated that Charlie puts RuPaul on her big monitor for the rest of the afternoon, no matter how loudly Kevin begs her to take it off or turn it down.

“Come on, Cas, it’s a surprise,” Dean says to his husband, who on December 30 has only just thought to ask him. “I can’t tell you yet, that would ruin it.”

That gets him a wary stare from the counter by the coffee pot, and Castiel says, “So you are. Planning something, that is.”

“I might be,” Dean says, smiling.

“Oh,” Castiel says with an answering smile that’s half grimace. He turns away to fill his thermos. “Alright. I suppose I’ll… look forward to that.”

He sounds amazingly unenthused by the idea. Dean loves him so, so much. “I promise— it’ll be your best New Year’s in a long time,” he says, coming up behind Castiel to kiss the one inked branch that pokes out above his collar. “Maybe ever. Trust me?”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Castiel sighs, shoulder pulling up like it tickles.

Talbot is open and they’re both working New Year’s Eve. The weather is sleety and depressing, and only gets worse as the day goes on; Castiel gives him increasingly doubtful looks over the bathroom sink, breakfast, the long, shitty drive into the office, and standing at the end of the year all-hands meeting. Doubt starts to turn to apprehension, then alarm as Victor pulls them aside to recommend a slightly less terrible wine from the Harbor, and Ellen sends both of them _Bon Appetit’_ s 2018 list of the best restaurants in Portland.

“Hey, we talked about this,” he says when Castiel comes to lurk worriedly in the creative offices around lunchtime, Charlie having showed up downstairs to dispense long-lasting makeup and wig adhesion tips. “Relax, okay? I know how to find the best parties, it’s going to be great.”

“Great,” Castiel echoes bleakly. “Should I— should I plan to wear anything… specific?”

“Wear whatever you like,” Dean says with malice aforethought. “Just be ready for something special.”

“That reminds me,” Benny says from behind his computer screen, and leans over to talk. “I’ve heard it’s nearly impossible to find a public bathroom around the… place you’re going. But I found this map, do you want me to forward it?”

Castiel is gazing down at Dean with a level of dread bordering on morbid. Dean grins into his pleading face and replies, “Sure thing. Thanks for looking out for us, buddy.”

Traffic is even worse leaving work. As they pull up to the house, Dean says, “We’re running a little late, but let’s try to be ready to go around eight. You can have first shower.”

“Can’t wait,” Castiel says faintly. Once they’re inside, he slumps off to the ensuite with the air of a man heading for execution, and Dean has to bite his lip as he stoops to pet Rosie. Nabokov is already waiting by the food dishes, imperious.

The door is closed and the water running when he makes it upstairs, so Dean hangs up his suit and pulls on the rattiest pair of sweatpants he owns, plus a shirt that might have been Sam’s circa 2012. One of Bobby’s Christmas presents had been a sturdy leather-reinforced apron for grilling, one of Jody’s a frilly yellow number with a heart-shaped top and lace edging. Dean digs through the jumbled mess of gifts on the dresser until he finds the yellow one and ties it tight around his waist.

Downstairs, he gets out the chilling pizza dough and starts to work it pliable. He gets flour on the apron and all over the counter pretty much immediately, but by the time he hears the door upstairs open again it’s resting and he’s on to chopping vegetables.

 _“Dean?”_ Castiel calls from somewhere upstairs.

“In the kitchen!” he calls back, nudging Rosie away from a fallen mushroom slice with his foot.

When Castiel rounds the corner into the kitchen, he’s wearing a tux and his funeral shoes. He stands in the doorway and squints accusingly as Dean sets the knife down, leans against the counter and makes a show of admiring the scenery, from glossy black wingtips to the slightly dusty shoulders of the dinner jacket.

“Lookin’ good, sweetheart,” he says, and despite the glower he sees Castiel’s lips twitch.

“You aren’t dressed,” the man observes, stepping closer.

“I’m plenty dressed,” Dean says, watching him come, “but if you think I’m leaving this house at any point in the next forty-eight hours, you’ve got another think coming.”

“And what is the plan, then?” Castiel says, eyes dropping to the giant, lopsided bow Dean’s tied around the apron. He slides a few fingers under the lacy fabric and tugs lightly.

Moving into Castiel’s hands is second nature now, but Dean has to remind himself that flour and all that black would be a bad mix. “Well, the oven’s pre-heating and I haven’t turned on the TV yet,” he says, leaning in to bring their lips close. “So the party’s on pause for now. But later, we’ll have pizza and salad fixings, maybe some poppers if the jalapenos are still good. I’ve got cheesecake and Brut in the fridge for later. Okay?”

“It's perfect,” Castiel says with real feeling, and kisses Dean while Dean’s laughing at him.

* * *

Later, Dean sees Castiel’s undone bowtie on the floor next to the couch and picks it up, sliding it between his fingers. It’s a nice weight, might even be real silk. The dusty jacket is beautifully tailored, too, and crumpled on the seat of the armchair in the corner.

“We should do something that warrants the tux soon,” he says to the half-asleep lump he’s lying on. “You looked good in it.”

“ _Not_ soon,” Castiel says, mumbling but adamant.

“Fine, fine,” Dean says, and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch before letting his head drop to Castiel’s chest. “February it is,” he says, tucking the fleece in around them, and snorts when Castiel pokes him in the side.


End file.
